Growing Pains
by RosemarieCraig
Summary: A look at Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood. Not a happy story. Abuse warning.
1. Chapter 1

The night Sherlock was born, Mycroft was in trouble. He had missed the call for dinner, engrossed in his reading, and Daddy had to come and get him. He missed dinner, but had to sit in his seat at the table for three hours when Mummy and Daddy had finished. He felt lonely, sitting on his own in the dark dining room. The table was long, seating around twenty people, and Mycroft sat in one of the mahogany chairs at the centre. He had to sit on his hands, looking at the ceiling, his back straight and not touching the chair. Daddy said it would make his posture better, and make him stronger. But Mycroft didn't feel stronger. To be honest though, he wouldn't have let his back touch the chair anyway, because of the large purple bruise down the left side of his spine. His head whipped around when he heard Mummy cry out. He had looked it up, childbirth. The book said it hurt lots. Mummy was in her bedroom, and soon he would have a baby brother or sister. Mycroft didn't feel anything about the baby. He didn't really care. He only had eleven years left to stay in the house anyway, and the baby would only really be conscious for six of those years. So it didn't really matter if he liked it. He hoped it would be a boy though, then Daddy would pay attention to it, instead of concentrating on Mycroft. He felt a stab of guilt for wishing harm on it. If it was a girl, Mummy would spend all her time with it, and Mycroft didn't want to lose his fifteen minutes of reading time with her every night. He heard Mummy scream again. He decided to count the seconds until someone remembered him and he could come out. He counted to 18,019 before the Butler came in and told him to scram. He had been there almost six hours. Mycroft crept upstairs, being careful not to touch the walls or banisters. He wasn't allowed to, in case he had dirty hands. He knocked almost silently on Mummy's bedroom door. She was lying in bed, looking tired, but happy, her face pink and her hair slightly damp and scraped back into a ponytail. She was holding a baby. Mycroft ignored the child, and went to Mummy.

"Hello my darling" she whispered "this is your baby brother"

"Oh"

"His name's Sherlock. He has your eyes"

"Sherlock. That's a nice name, Mummy"

"Thank you dearest. Would you like to hold him?"

"No thank you. I don't want to drop him"

"It's okay. Come and lie next to me" Mycroft hopped up onto Mummy and Daddy's bed, a place he had not been allowed to go since he was very small, and leant his head on Mummy's shoulder. She passed the baby to her oldest son and watched his distant exterior melt as he stared into the baby's bright blue eyes. "Mycroft, listen to me" she said

"Yes Mummy?"

"You are his big brother, and it's your responsibility to take care of him, do you understand?"

"Yes"

"You have to promise me that you will always look after Sherlock, always help him when he needs you, teach him the things he needs to know. Do you promise, Mycroft?"

"Yes Mummy. I promise"

hi if this gets a good reception, I'll post the rest. Review if you want more!


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft kept his promise. But Sherlock didn't make it easy. The older boy was almost fourteen, the younger enjoying his last weeks of being six. Not that anyone would know he was only six. He was too tall and lanky, his feet were too big, his voice too loud, his knowledge too expansive for such a young boy. He didn't like to be outside, he just sat and read with Mycroft in the family library. The only thing that really identified his age was his speech. He hardly spoke, and when he did, his words were stuttered and didn't express what he wanted to say. Daddy hated that 'The Boy' couldn't talk like a real man, and he shouted at him whenever he stuttered. It was a Thursday afternoon in October, it was raining, and it was dull. Mycroft was bored out of his skin, his hands twitching on the side of the physics textbook he was reading for school. He detested school and its slow pace and stupid children. He was three years ahead of his age, but the seventeen year olds were just as stupid as his rightful year group. Mycroft looked up from the boring book and scouted the room for Sherlock. Just as he ascertained that he was not in the room, he heard a cry from upstairs. Mycroft slammed the book shut and leapt from his chair, sprinting haphazardly up the stairs. Maybe, if he got there quickly enough, he could stop Daddy. He slid around the corner just as Daddy slapped the little boy around the mouth.

"Daddy, please, he didn't do anything wrong! It was me, I take all the blame. Don't hurt him"

"Oh it wasn't him?" Daddy said, sarcasm dripping from his voice, pointing aggressively at Sherlock "It was you who started stammering like an oaf when asked a direct question, was it?"

"I-"

"No, it wasn't. So shut up, Mycroft, and go amuse yourself elsewhere"

"But-"

"No buts"

"Daddy, I was only saying because he's a little young, don't you think, to be hit?"

"No. No, boy, I do not think that" the tall, dark haired man took a step towards his older son, raising a threatening finger "how dare you talk back to me?"

"Sorry, sir, I just meant-"

"Shut up. If you know what's good for you, you'll go to your bedroom and stay the hell out of my way for the rest of the day"

"Shall I take Sherlock with me?"

"No, you shan't. Get lost"

"But Daddy-" Mycroft was cut off by a sudden blow to the side of his face. He raised a hand to his cheek, trying to rub away the stinging.

"Go to your room before I double his punishment and copy it twice on you"

"I-" Mycroft looked over at the shaking boy. Sherlock looked frightened, and his horror increased when Daddy threatened to double his punishment. The older boy backed away, cursing himself for failing to protect his baby brother. As soon as he was around the corner, he sat down on the carpet and listened. He would not abandon him.

"Sherlock" Daddy said sharply "you will learn to talk like a human being. I will not tolerate stammering in my house, do you understand?"

"Y-y-y-yes S-s-sir" Sherlock tried. Mycroft flinched at how hard the child was trying to force the words out of his mouth. He could almost see the look of agonised concentration on his face. But they wouldn't come. Mycroft heard the resounding slap and flinched again at the gasp of pain.

"Say it again"

"Y-y-y-y-y-yes... S-s-s-s-sir" he was even worse that time. Mycroft herd him being slammed against the wall like meat on a chopping board.

"You are a failure! You are weak! You will never amount to anything because you can't even say two words without stuttering. I'm ashamed to have you as my son" tears were running down Sherlock's thin face, trying so hard to please.

"S-s-s-sorry s-s-s-sir"

"Shut up you little moron. Come with me" Daddy grabbed Sherlock's t-shirt and dragged him towards the master bedroom. The little boy didn't struggle, but allowed himself to be yanked around and scraped along the floor. Mycroft followed the pair and waited at the door, which had been left ajar. "Sit down" Daddy ordered, and Mycroft heard a whimper as the child was thrown onto the chair set in front of the mirror. Mycroft sighed. He had had to go through several mirror punishments in his time, but never as many as Sherlock. Daddy knew it was worse for the younger boy. "Say 'I am a naughty boy, and I cannot speak'"

"I-I-I a-am a-a n-n-n-n-naughty b-b-boy, and I-I-I c-c-c-cannot sp-sp-speak"

"Idiot" Mycroft heard a clap around Sherlock's head "Each time you stutter doesn't count. Say it fifty times. No damn stutter" Daddy hit Sherlock again and swept out of the room, not noticing his older son crouching behind the door. Mycroft went straight into the room, finding Sherlock sobbing silently and trying desperately to say the sentence without a stutter.

"Hush, it's okay buddy" Mycroft held his shoulders, standing behind him. I had had to sit in front of the mirror for hours sometimes, repeating phrases like 'I am stupid, I am worthless, I am bad' or 'No one will ever like me, no one cares about me, no one would even notice if I died'. They were so ingrained into his psyche he didn't even notice their influence. "You just take deep breaths and try your best to say it. Do one word at a time, okay?"

"I... am... a..."

"Good boy. Keep going"

"N-naughty... b-b-boy"

"Take a breath and try again from the start"

"I... am... a... naughty... b-b-boy"

"And again, Sherlock. You can do it"

"I... am... a... naughty... boy"

"Well done, keep going"

"and... I... c-cannot... s-sp-speak"

"Nearly, Sherlock" Mycroft sighed "you just keep trying. Remember to keep breathing"

"A-are y-you l-leaving?" He asked, his face the image of pity and despair

"Sorry. He'll wonder where I am. He's probably searching for me. He wants to get his frustrations out before Mummy gets home in an hour or so"

"B-bye"

"Bye. Good luck" Mycroft shut the door quietly as he left, wishing he could stay and help. Or better yet, talk Daddy out of doing it in the first place. But he told Sherlock the truth, Daddy always wanted to vent before Mummy came home. So that he could put on the act of perfect husband, perfect father. Unfortunately, only Mummy was fooled. The boys had self esteem as fragile as the mirror and bruises to match. Mycroft went down the stairs to Daddy's study and knocked on the door.

"In"

"Good afternoon, Daddy"

"Mycroft. I was very disappointed in the way you spoke to me upstairs. You undermined my authority and tried to make me look a fool in front of The Boy"

"That wasn't my intention. I just don't like to see Sherlock treated like that"

"He is treated better than most children. Look at this house, Mycroft. Even your friends at school won't have houses this grand or historic. You are lucky. The Boy is lucky. I hope you understand that I will be punishing you for your infractions today"

"Yes, I understand that"

"Lower your trousers, hands on the desk" Mycroft obeyed the familiar order, undoing his belt at the same time as his father, and leant on the desk. The blows came hard and swift, fifteen across his buttocks with the heavy leather. Mycroft bit his lip to stop himself yelling out, but kept the pain buried deep down inside. All of a sudden, it was over, and he pulled his trousers back up, fastening his belt with barely shaking fingers.

"Thank you, sir"

"You may go and sit in your bedroom. Neither of you will be having supper tonight"

"Yes sir"

"I will see you in the morning, Mycroft. Good night" Mycroft left the room, limping slightly, one of the strikes had hit the line between his butt and thigh, and the resulting swelling made it hard to walk. He made his way up the stairs, making sure the door to his father's study remained closed, and went into the master bedroom to console an inconsolable Sherlock.

"I-I h-haven't d-done a-any!" he whispered between racking sobs, frantic with fear, humiliation and a feeling of utter weakness.

"It's okay, it's okay. You don't need to worry"

"I-I'm useless"

"No" Mycroft held his brother a arms length away from him "no, Sherlock. You are not useless. You are smart, and handsome and funny. You make my world brighter, little brother"

"N-no I-I d-don't"

"Yes you do. It won't be long now, before Daddy comes and lets you out. He knows you won't get to fifty. He has no intention of making you stay here until you do. You've been here over an hour already. He'll just come in, smack you around a little and send you to bed. It will be okay"

"C-can I-I s-sleep in y-your r-room t-tonight?"

"Yes. Yes, of course you can. Come in as soon as he lets you go. You just keep trying to say that sentence, Sherlock. I know you can" Mycroft allowed himself to hug the younger boy, just for a moment, before he left in silence, going back to his own room. Sherlock turned back to face the mirror, staring at his tear stained face, trying to recite 'I am a naughty boy, and I cannot speak' as though it were gospel truth, every attempt at repetition forcing the message further and further into his mind.

After a few hours of Sherlock trying to speak and Mycroft trying to block him out enough to concentrate on an excellent novel he was reading, Daddy came upstairs. Mycroft put his fingers in his ears, attempting to block out the sounds of his baby brother crying and the thuds as he was hit over and over. Mycroft had been hit a lot, but it was worse for Sherlock. He didn't know why his brother was always treated worse than he was. Sure, the younger boy was more energetic, more curious, more eager to find out new things. But the elder was unsure what made Daddy hate Sherlock so much. He winced as he almost felt the floor vibrate when it seemed Sherlock was picked up and thrown onto the floor. Then the unmistakable sound of Daddy hitting the boy's soft back with his belt, echoing through the house, the strikes as loud as Sherlock's cries. He waited, trying not to listen to the crying and yelling, for nearly an hour, then Mummy came home. He let out a sigh of relief. At least no more harm would come to Sherlock that day. He raced down to kiss her before Daddy got there, and was back upstairs almost before he had greeted his wife. Mycroft snuck into the master bedroom and saw his brother curled in a ball on the floor, his arms wrapped tight around his head, shaking with sadness and terror. He reached out to the boy, but he flinched, whimpering. Mycroft scooped his brother up and took him to his bedroom. He placed the younger boy on his bed and crawled in beside him. It was only nine o'clock, but they were both exhausted.

"S-s-sorry C-croft"

"I know. Don't worry. Just sleep" and they slept, Mycroft feeling his little body relax as he slipped further and further into the warm and welcoming arms of Morpheus.


	3. Chapter 3

**Just a short one today folks, and after this there are two more chapters written. I might write more depending on reviews. Read and review people! Xx**

It was later that year that their mother died. Her plane crashed, killing hundreds, and it left Mycroft and Sherlock alone with her husband. Her last words had been to her oldest son, as she struggled to breathe in the hospital, burns destroying her once beautiful face, her arms shaking as she lightly embraced her boys. 'Protect him, My. He's just a baby. Take care of him. And take care of yourself, too. Promise me?"

"I promise, Mummy. I love you" he whispered, tears streaming down his face as he knew her last moments had come.

"I love you too. And you, Sherlock. Neither of you ever forget that. You are so, so much loved"

"We won't forget" Mycroft said softly.

They stayed in the house for a week after she died. Mycroft didn't want to do anything, just sit, staring at photographs of his mother. Sherlock tried to stay quiet, but forgot occasionally, running across halls or accidentally crying when he remembered that Mummy would never hold him again. Daddy just drank, more and more, mainly scotch and whiskey. His punishments became harsher. Mycroft's back was covered in bruises. Sherlock had a large black eye and a busted lip by the end of the week. But Mycroft couldn't understand why Daddy spent so much time with Sherlock in the master bedroom, making him sit in front of the mirror. The little boy had slept in his brother's bedroom that first week, and woke up from several nightmares.

"Mycroft," he whispered "is it my fault Mummy went away?"

"No, no, it's not your fault. She died, Sherlock, it was no one's fault, especially not yours."

"Daddy said it was because she didn't want to be with me anymore. He said she didn't love me. I thought she did"

"Is that what he's been making you say for mirror punishment this week?" Sherlock nodded, ashamed "he's wrong, baby brother. Mummy did not leave because of you. She loved you with all her heart. You just remember that, okay?"

"Yes Mycroft"


	4. Chapter 4

**Tiny short chapter this time folks, but there will be a huge Mycroft-Sherlock Christmas soon, in the run up in real time! Less than a month now! X**

Sherlock threw the last of his clothes into a suitcase and looked around at his empty bedroom. This would probably be the last time he would be here. He took in the faded spots on the walls from where his posters had been, the empty bookshelves, the stripped bed. So many memories. Mixed ones, not just as a focal point for the many, many punishments he'd endured there. He remembered the times he and Mycroft had played chess or pirates. The times Mummy had read to him. He sighed, running a hand through his short curly hair. It was all over. He was leaving. He was seventeen, allowed, finally, after years of waiting, to go to university. He'd won a place at Oxford without even trying. He'd applied for some random course. Something to do with Anthropology, he thought. But it didn't matter. He would hardly pay any attention anyway, just cruise through, soaking up all the information he could get. He shut the case and dragged it away, closing the door behind him without another glance. As he got to the bottom of the stairs, his father came out of the kitchen.

"Leaving?"

"Yes."

"Are you coming here for Christmas?"

"I doubt it."

"To Mycroft, then?"

"I guess so."

"It wasn't my intention to drive you away." The man said, almost regretfully

"Well. That's what happened."

"It wasn't the plan, I assure you. Especially since... since she died."

"Trust me, we were waiting to leave long before that." Sherlock said coldly. His father took a step towards him, his eyes darkening as they did when he was about to lash out. But he didn't.

"I wish things had been different. I wish you boys hadn't been so bad, and that I hadn't had to punish you."

"Mycroft says I'm not bad. That you're the one who's bad."

"Mycroft always did talk about things he doesn't understand."

"He understands a lot."

"Not really."

"Well. Goodbye."

"Goodbye. I will come to your graduation, I promise."

"I won't be counting on it." Sherlock said. His father looked almost disappointed.

"Work hard"

"Bye" Sherlock dragged his case out of the door, wrapped his scarf around his thin neck, and walked away from the grand house, finally free.


End file.
